


soft, low, sweet, plain

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015) Fusion, Bittersweet, Drunken Shenanigans, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, M/M, Tequila
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:37:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A night off, two rival secret agents, and a bottle of tequila.





	soft, low, sweet, plain

**Author's Note:**

> write drunk, edit sober! this is for this week's [yurionicefans](http://yurionicefans.dreamwidth.org/) prompt, which is "tequila." so naturally i cracked out a bottle and some shot glasses and got to work. and i'd just rewatched the man from u.n.c.l.e. so this turned into an excerpt from my ideal AU fic, which i've dreamt of a lot but will probably never write in full.
> 
> edit 14/7/18: i'm orphaning this work for reasons i'd rather not go into. if you find this and you know who wrote it, i would appreciate it if you didn't associate it with my ao3 account. thank you for understanding!

Viktor clocks the hotel room as _not a threat_ —oh, it’ll be bugged, but so is everything these days, and he didn’t become a spy for his lack of tact.

“You weren’t much help today, you know,” he says.

Well, tact has its uses, and sometimes it’s not really necessary at all. The real question is, how can _he_ bug this room? He’d made a valiant attempt on their first night, but Katsuki was far too clever by half and found all of them. Almost all of them. He did miss the ones in his shoes, but what does he need his shoes for, except dancing?

“Do you dance, Nikiforov?” Katsuki asks.

Inclining his head towards the radio, Viktor says, “A little.” God, he’s so enigmatic. Like a spy should be. Let’s see Katsuki counter _that_ , he thinks.

“I used to dance,” Katsuki says. “Could’ve been a ballet dancer, before—before the war. These days there are far better uses for a man with two good legs.”

“Why don’t you show me your tricks?” Viktor goads.

Passingly, he feels bad for dropping the big brother act for one night and leaving Yuri downstairs in 707. If the Italians come knocking, then… but no, Yuri is old enough to take care of himself, and Viktor is happier here, getting to know this American spy with a Japanese name and a history as an art thief, of all things. None of it quite adds up, painting a contradictory picture, quite unlike the one Viktor has seen on their mission so far.

Exhibit A: “Ah, I’m out of practise,” Katsuki says. “You wouldn’t want to see me like this.”

“Who’s to say what I would or wouldn’t want?” Viktor says. “You barely know me.”

Exhibit B: Katsuki smiles, if fleetingly. “But you do that to yourself,” he says. “Viktor Nikiforov, unknowable.”

Viktor _badly_ wants Katsuki to know him. He wants Katsuki to know one night of carnal pleasure with him, wants him to know a lifetime with him, in a cottage by the sea with a big garden and five dogs. But even beyond the image he’s spent his entire career cultivating, he knows it’s unprofessional. A Russian and an American—it could never work out. He _wants_ it to, though, and surely that’s motivation enough? Viktor was hired because he shoots first, asks questions later. He could do that now. Load all six barrels, take his chances with roulette.

Exhibit C: Katsuki is a nervous drinker; he takes his chances too. He tops up his glass of tequila and takes a short, sharp shot.

“Where did you get your hands on this?” Viktor asks. “I don’t know what the drink of choice is in Rome these days, but I doubt it’s one that comes all the way from Mexico.”

“I know my way around this city,” is all Katsuki says. His posture is guarded, his eyes downcast.

Viktor is momentarily floored—for all his walls, he could only dream of being so enigmatic—but he recovers quickly. “You’re doing it all wrong. You need a lemon, and salt.”

“They don’t usually provide those _gratis_ to guests,” Katsuki says, quirking one eyebrow.

“Well then,” Viktor says, “I’d say a trip to the kitchens is in order, hmm?”

Exhibit D: Katsuki agrees, without hesitation.

They take the elevator. It feels very small, too warm even for a Mediterranean winter, and too small to contain all the distance between them. Sneaking around the hotel is easy, though—they’re not a team, absolutely not, but that’s not to say they don’t work well together. Katsuki can pick all the locks with that scarily efficient but still remarkably pedestrian device of his, the kind of low-tech the Russians would never be caught dead using, and Viktor is quick on his feet and running with a working memory of the hotel’s floor plans.

The kitchen isn’t busy. Katsuki grabs a chef by his apron strings and yanks him into a storage cupboard big enough for three with room to spare; Viktor knocks him out with The Kiss, unties the apron and slips it over his neck, gives the chefs’ whites to Katsuki, because it’s a better fit for his shorter frame.

“Lemons,” Katsuki says. He says it slowly, pensively, like he’s never seen a lemon in his life, and that’s the precise moment Viktor realises that Katsuki is already a little drunk. “Where do you find _lemons_ in a kitchen?”

“With the rest of the fruit, I’ll hazard,” Viktor says.

Katsuki puts a hand to his chest. “I’m right here.”

Viktor laughs, light with relief—they’re on the same page. This seduction, or whatever it is, needn’t be so one-sided, even with the spectre of the Iron Curtain hanging between them. Viktor steals a pot of unbelievably fancy and expensive rock salt and he feels like a teenager again, head spinning with excitement and not even a drop of alcohol in his system. Yet.

It’s winding down for the night. In one corner of the kitchen, Katsuki wields a too-large knife with easy prowess and chops the lemon down its lines of latitude, crafting wedges like he was a bartender in a past life. He sticks one between his teeth, and through his muffled lips says, “Should we take the knife too?”

“How much tequila do you plan on drinking?”

Katsuki thinks about this for a moment, taking the wedge out of his mouth and turning it around in his fingers. “The whole bottle,” he says decisively.

So that’s the final word on the matter. Viktor slips lemons into the pouch of his stolen apron and Katsuki carries the wedges in his bare hands, and somehow, caught up in their own private joke and above the presence of anyone else in the hotel, they make it back to the room.

“I’ve never done it like this before,” Katsuki says. “Tequila, that is. You should teach me how.”

“How do you usually dri—no, never mind,” Viktor says. “Follow my lead.”

He takes a pinch of salt and spreads it on the back of his hand, just atop the ridge before his thumb. Then, he licks the salt, downs a shot glass of tequila as quick as possible, and sticks a lemon wedge into his mouth. He bites down, lemon juice smoothing out the burn in his throat.

“Like—” He coughs. “Like so.”

“Looks like you’re not used to this either,” Katsuki says. He reaches into the salt jar and takes far too much, sprinkles it straight onto his tongue, and ignores his shot glass, drinking the tequila straight from the bottle.

“Lemon,” Viktor prompts. He puts a wedge between Katsuki’s teeth. “See?”

Katsuki nods. He sucks the lemon wedge dry, and then throws it over his shoulder, a problem for housekeeping tomorrow morning.

“You know what this needs?” he says. “This needs music.”

The radio has music in Italian, news in Italian, and finally, popular music, a song with a good beat and a bold minor key. Viktor stands to one side and tunes the radio perfectly while Katsuki takes to the dancefloor—the dancefloor is the space between the expensive furniture in their expensive hotel room, but he makes it a discotheque in its own right.

He really wasn’t kidding when he said he used to be a dancer.

Viktor doesn’t know the song, but his English is good, and he picks up on the words quickly, singing along to the chorus. “Reach out for me—I’ll be there—”

Really, he isn’t such a bad singer, but Katuski laughs anyway, in tune with the music. The song changes—it’s all western music, which Viktor isn’t so acquainted with, but he gets into the mood of it, and soon he’s on his feet too, swaying in time to a beat he doesn’t know personally, but which he knows intimately nevertheless.

“No dancing until you’ve had more tequila,” Katsuki says, wagging a finger in Viktor’s face.

Viktor nods his understanding. He retreats to the table where they’re keeping the salt and lemons and sticks his tongue right into the pot of salt, down the neck of the bottle of tequila, and into one of the spare lemon wedges.

Then, only then, he takes to the floor. One hand extended, Viktor says, “May I have the honour of this dance?”

“You may,” Katsuki says. “Have you ever danced before?”

“A little,” Vitor says. “Not as much as I should have.”

Katsuki nods. “Too busy with work. I understand. Take my hands—I’ll guide you.”

So Viktor takes his hands.

This is dangerous territory, fraternising with the enemy, but it feels more right than anything Viktor’s ever done; more right than accepting this mission, which is ostensibly to save the world from the inevitability of nuclear winter.

“I’ll teach you this dance I know,” Katsuki says, his voice slurring. “It’s a waltz—this is in three-four time, so we can do it. But if the song changes, we’ll probably get out of time. Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Viktor says. He only barely knows the music, anyway.

Katsuki begins to lead him in an out-of-time waltz—Viktor can waltz passably, and his education would’ve been rather lacking without it, but this is different, in feel and in function. The song changes, an announcer’s voice filling the space in between. They keep dancing. This song is in four-four time, and Viktor loses track of the pace, moving in time to a beat of his own creation like there’s no-one else in the world, just him and Katsuki— _Yuuri_ , the American spy with the Japanese name, Viktor’s partner for just this mission, and for just this night.

“Whenever I’m with you,” Yuuri sings, softly, an octave lower, “something inside starts to burn deep—”

“Is that how you feel?” Viktor asks. He’s mostly joking.

Yuuri doesn’t answer; he keeps singing along. “Could it be a devil in me? Or is this the way love’s meant to be?”

“Yes,” Viktor says emphatically, “yes, this is how it’s meant to be.”

Yuuri smiles and draws Viktor closer. Viktor can’t stop grinning. This smile—it’s a secret, something only they will ever know.

“Hey,” Yuuri says, “show me again how to drink tequila.”

He flops down on the chaise longue, and Viktor joins him.

“You take the lemon,” Viktor says, picking up the pot of salt and holding it between them. He pauses to laugh, tipsy. “The salt! I mean the salt! You take the salt, and lick it.”

Viktor wets his finger and sticks it into the pot, then between his licks. Yuuri mirrors him perfectly.

“Then you drink the tequila—”

He stops, undoing the top button of Yuuri’s shirt, because it may be winter outside, but in here it’s still a heat wave. They bypass the shot glasses again, taking turns to drink from the bottle.

“—and then you suck the lemon.”

Viktor places the lemon sideways between his teeth, and Yuuri takes the bait, biting the other side. Then, they’re so close—less than a centimetre of lemon apart—and it’s so, so easy to close that distance and let their mouths meet in a kiss hotter than a summer they’ve never spent together.

 _It’s only a temporary arrangement_ , Viktor thinks. But is that what he _wants_?

“I don’t want to be your enemy,” he says, a quiet admission of guilt. “Let’s… be on the same side, for now.”

“The same side,” Yuuri muses. “It’s never that easy, is it? But…”

“But tonight,” Viktor says, “it doesn’t matter. Kiss me again?”

Yuuri does. The low light of the hotel room, glimmering from the crystals of an opulent chandelier, casts dim shadows on the vintage furniture to set the mood. The next song the radio plays is one Viktor has heard before— _baby, baby, where did our love go?_ —and instinctively he knows the answer. _Here, now_.

Viktor unbuttons the rest of Yuuri’s shirt as Yuuri reaches to one side to put the tequila away, and they fall so that they’re lying on the gilded chaise longue, paisley pattern swirling in Viktor’s double-vision, gold brocade catching at the corner of his vision. Yuuri moves beneath him and Viktor leans forward, pushes Yuuri’s shirt off his shoulders.

Tomorrow—tomorrow they will be Nikiforov and Katsuki again, rival agents who are temporarily working for the same cause, but until then, they are Viktor and Yuuri, young and—not in love, not anything so strong as that—young and enamoured with one another, limbs tangled together a piece of furniture that’s barely large enough for both of them.

The bottle of tequila rests on the floor.

“Teach me again,” Yuuri says, almost pleadingly. “Show me.”

Viktor obliges, because this may not be love, but he is _in_ love, and he can’t be bothered to think about the semantic difference right now, when his brain is trying to work in three languages at once and his heart is beating three-four against four-four, a hemiola against his ribcage.

He dips his fingers into the plot of salt and leaves a trail of it down Yuuri’s bare chest, and licks slow, purposeful, stretching out each second as long as possible.

“First,” he says, “you lick the salt, then you drink the tequila—”

And this, again, is straight from the bottle, droplets spilling over the rim of its opening and onto Yuuri’s chest.

“—and then, you suck the lemon—”

He licks the tequila off Yuuri’s chest, just for good measure. And now Viktor allows himself to move too, grinding against Yuuri, pinpricks of light crossing his vision like the summer sun, captivated by a kind of pleasure he hasn’t felt in years.

“You’re overdressed,” Yuuri says. “Your suit—”

“It’s very formal,” Viktor agrees. “Perfect for fooling people into thinking I’m a respectable young man. The role I play—”

“Play that role a little longer,” Yuuri says.

“The russian spy,” Viktor says,  “who seduced the American.”

Yuuri laughs, and it’s like a rush of blood straight to Viktor’s head. “I like that,” Yuuri says. “I like that we’re meant to be enemies. Makes this all the more thrilling.”

“You want thrilling?” Viktor teases. His hand strays south, palming against Yuuri’s trousers.

“Show me,” Yuuri says. “Show me all the things you would do to me if we were on the same side.”

Viktor’s temples are pounding, heady with the rush of the tequila. He says, “All sorts of things, Yuuri.”

“Would you,” Yuuri says. He moves against Viktor, sprawling further out across the chaise longue. “Why don’t you…”

“Yuuri?”

 _Katsuki_ , Viktor thinks. _Be professional_.

“Viktor,” Yuuri says, languorous, like he’s seeing how the name feels on his tongue, “you’re so—”

And then his head lulls against the arm of the chaise longue, his eyes fluttering shut. Yuuri a flirty drunk, a happy, loving drunk, the sort of person Viktor would break international laws for and compromise treaties to fall in love with—it turns out he is also a tried drunk, and his eyes close firmly now.

Viktor shifts uncomfortably on top of Yuuri. “Maybe tomorrow, hmm?”

Yuuri responds by snoring.

“Tomorrow,” Viktor says. He tries to say it firmly, wishes more than anything it could be a promise, but that’s not who they are. They are Yuuri Katsuki, CIA agent, and Viktor Nikiforov, the KGB’s finest, and tomorrow they will be back to their mission.

Tonight—

Tonight, Viktor gets up gently so he doesn’t disturb Yuuri, and rearranges Yuuri’s limbs so he’s lying more comfortably, props a cushion beneath his head. He takes off Yuuri’s shoes, puts them neatly side-by-side and checks that they’re still bugged—Viktor images the static someone would’ve heard if they were listening in while Yuuri was dancing.

Although he’s dizzy, Viktor tidies away the tableau of tequila, lemon wedges, and salt which sits on the floor beside the chaise longue. He tiptoes out of 807 and goes back downstairs.

The next day, it’s business as usual.

**Author's Note:**

> the songs mentioned are "reach out i'll be there" by the four tops, "heat wave" by martha and the vandellas (i also really like the cover of it by the jam), and "where did our love go?" by the supremes (another cover rec: the soft cell version is great too; listen to the extended mix with "tainted love.") the title of the fic is from "heat wave."


End file.
